Eighteen years ago, at Dark River, in Moon Shadow Pavilion.
“Zizhe, what do you live for?” asked the elderly man seated on the high platform, sipping his tea.
Below him, a handsome young man in white robes clasped his hands respectfully. “I live for the glory of the Mu Clan!”
“Oh? Explain,” the elder glanced at him.
“I, Mu Zizhe, will bring prosperity to the Mu Clan and ensure that our clan truly leads the Three Families in the next generation!” Determination gleamed in the young man’s eyes.
“Then Ciling, what do you live for?” The elder turned to look at an even younger boy, whose expression showed casual indifference.
The boy, chewing on a horsehair grass stem, had already drifted off in thought. Hearing the elder’s words, he snapped back to attention and hesitated: “Umm…” In truth, he hadn’t heard the question clearly and was just pretending to think.
“Ciling, what do you live for?” The elder, well aware of the boy’s little ploy, repeated his question.
“Clan Leader, why do you always ask such profound questions?” the boy said helplessly.
“Ciling, show some respect!” Mu Zizhe snapped angrily.
The elder took another sip of tea, maintaining his composed demeanor and unhurried tone. “Profound, you say? Then interpret it with your simplest understanding.”
“Well, obviously I live for myself,” the boy declared boldly.
“Oh?” The elder set down his teacup. “You live for yourself?”
“The Mu Clan is made up of living, breathing clan members. If each member can truly live for themselves and grow into a powerful existence, then naturally the clan will prosper, and naturally, we’ll lead the Three Families.” The boy’s gaze met the elder’s, his eyes burning with intensity.
The elder sighed softly. “Ciling, you’re quite fixated on becoming powerful.”
“If I become the strongest in Dark River, then the Mu Clan will naturally become the strongest in Dark River,” the boy said with a smile.
Mu Zizhe looked at the youth, and at that moment, confusion rose in his heart, mingled with a touch of envy.
Though their talents were similar, compared to Mu Zizhe, Mu Ciling was far too simple a person.
If someone hit him, he hit back.
If someone tried to kill him, he killed them first.
If someone pushed him down, he insisted on standing up.
“Hah!” Mu Ciling gradually rose to his feet, wielding his [Mo Dao] Ghost Blade.
Mu Zizhe’s white robes fluttered as his fingers danced across the zither strings, each finger bleeding from the strings’ bite, yet the blade network pressing down on Mu Ciling was still being broken apart bit by bit.
Mu Qingyang exclaimed in shock: “He broke through the Nine Transformations of Heavenly Sound Zither without using the Yanma Palm technique!”
Su Zhetian exclaimed excitedly: “I won! I won! I knew I hadn’t misjudged him!”
Su Changfeng frowned slightly: “It’s not over yet.”
“Butterfly Transformation, Thousand Mechanism Dance!” Mu Zizhe roared. A ghostly shriek suddenly erupted from the ancient zither, and its strings snapped. Mu Zizhe coughed up a mouthful of blood, staining the instrument.
The blade network shattered, and the puppet strings shot toward Mu Ciling chaotically. He first retreated swiftly to catch his breath, then whirled his Ghost Blade frantically. The clear sound of metal clashing rang out, followed by the sound of flesh being torn. Wounds appeared on Mu Ciling’s shoulders, abdomen, and arms.
“This won’t do.” Mu Qingyang raised his sword, intending to help.
“The wager isn’t over. You can’t interfere,” Su Changfeng held him back.
Su Zhetian nodded: “That’s right. The wager continues.”
“He’s not surnamed Su, so naturally you’re not concerned,” Mu Qingyang frowned.
“I don’t care what his surname is. I only know he doesn’t want your help. If he wants to win, what difficulty would there be in using the Yanma Palm technique now to break this spent blade formation?” Su Changfeng asked.
“None at all!” Mu Ciling gripped his blade with both hands, making a gentle circular motion. He stepped forward, and suddenly the entire Ghost Blade shattered into pieces, falling to the ground. But the blade formation had also been destroyed. Covered in blood, Mu Ciling still wore that defiant smile at the corner of his mouth.
Mu Zizhe gave a bitter laugh and sighed softly: “I’ve lost.”
“Yes! You’ve lost!” Mu Ciling roared, charging forward with a raised fist, seemingly ready to shatter both Mu Zizhe and the Nine Transformations of Heavenly Sound Zither into pieces.
“Stop… stop!” Mu Qingyang swung his peach wood sword, blocking Mu Ciling for an instant before darting in front of Mu Zizhe, snatching away the zither and leaping aside.
“This is our Mu Clan’s treasure. Ciling, don’t be rash.” Mu Qingyang glanced at Mu Zizhe, “As for…” Mu Zizhe had been the Mu Clan leader and was half a master to Mu Qingyang. Though joining The Other Shore had severed their master-disciple relationship, there were still bonds between them.
“You think becoming Clan Leader gives you the right to decide my life and death? I lost to Mu Ciling, not to you,” Mu Zizhe said with a cold laugh.
After being forced back by the peach wood sword, Mu Ciling calmed somewhat and didn’t immediately pursue the attack. He turned away: “Let him go. We had no real grudge to begin with.”
“If you and I had joined forces, it wouldn’t be Su Changhe and Su Muyu who rose to power in Dark River today,” Mu Zizhe said gravely.
“That’s the difference between us. I never join forces with others,” Mu Ciling replied.
“Hahaha!” Mu Zizhe laughed loudly, then spread his arms. Countless paper butterflies emerged from the shadows, dancing through the air. Su Changfeng and Su Zhetian immediately drew their swords: “This guy just won’t quit.”
“Today, I finally understand the meaning behind Master’s question,” Mu Zizhe raised his head. The paper butterflies flew around him, surrounding his entire body before bursting into flames. The roaring fire instantly engulfed Mu Zizhe’s entire form, and when the paper butterflies had burned to ash, Mu Zizhe had vanished.
“Turned to ash?” Su Zhetian clicked his tongue.
“Beyond saving,” Mu Ciling took a few steps forward but finally collapsed from exhaustion. Yet he continued speaking, “Master’s question back then was meaningless.”
“If it was meaningless, why could you immediately recognize which question Mu Zizhe was referring to after decades?” Mu Qingyang crouched down and asked Mu Ciling.
Mu Ciling smiled: “Because every word that old fool spoke was meaningless. Dark River is meaningless, the Mu Clan is meaningless, and killing is meaningless. Only my existence—the existence of Mu Ciling—has my meaning.”
“So you’re a philosopher!” Mu Qingyang feigned shock.
“Idiot,” Mu Ciling rolled his eyes and passed out.